


Night Fighter Calling Dawn Patrol

by thegrumblingirl



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 60s romantic heist movie AU, How to Steal a Million AU, Humor, M/M, but that's what it is, like how the hell am I supposed to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: Fiddling with the radio in order to catch the 5 o'clock news, he continued down Quai de l’Archevêché and listened idly, wondering for a moment whether Gaby would be home this evening, or if she had another banquet to disappear off to. His sister could be delightfully standoffish when faced with Parisian high society, but she sure had a knack for charming them, those she enchanted happily attributing her temper to her German ancestry, and her kid gloves to her late foster father in turn. Solo smiled. Papa had been so happy at her first--"And now, in the world of art. At an auction this morning, an impressionist masterpiece by Paul Cézanne fetched an astonishing price."Suddenly alert, he pulled over and slowed to a stop, turning up the volume.





	1. Burglar, Burglar, In the Night

**Author's Note:**

> So... I was watching How to Steal a Million (with Audrey Hepburn and Peter O'Toole) recently, it's one of my favourite movies. It's from 1966 and pretty much set around that time, and I was thinking, during the caper, that the truly ingenious way that Simon has planned the heist just... wouldn't work today. So I got thinking about what a modern remake would look like, and then, for some reason, my brain screamed at me to write a HtSaM AU for The Man from UNCLE. I blame Armie Hammer for... pretty much that entire thought process. And hence, it turned into a novelisation of the movie + swapping in the characters + altering the action to what _they_ would do.
> 
> Solo is actually being described as 'honest' in this one, and I know, I know. But for the purpose of the story he is, but the idea for the heist comes from him, so in the same vein as 'Solo discovered his penchant for stealing when stationed in post-War Germany,' I'm using my artistic liberty to make this story the awakening of his, um, requisite skillset.
> 
> Lines of dialogue where I've lifted them from the movie are designated by a little *. The plot itself follows the movie pretty closely, but I'm writing the characters as we know them, and fitting their actions to reflect that as well as looking at the whole thing through Solo's eyes.  
> That said, due to some background changes that will be explained over the course of the story, their backstories will also differ, which can result in a few tweaks in behaviour. For instance: Illya's father was never shipped off to the gulag. He's still an awkward turtle, but he's been spared the red mist.
> 
> In every other sense, this is entirely derivative, but I'm having fun, so I refuse to feel bad!
> 
> So, uh... I hope you enjoy this!

 

Napoleon 'Solo' Bonnet was driving home from his job at the US embassy, nothing in particular on his mind. He thought briefly about the woman he'd met there a few days earlier, Victoria Vinciguerra, who had briskly (but alluringly, in her own way) asked him out to dinner. He'd accepted, and they'd set the date for five days hence – tomorrow. He was not smitten with her, but then he hardly knew anything about her, except that she was a rich American industrialist with ties to one of the largest shipping companies in Italy. Asking after his family background, seeing as he'd grown up in Paris but retained an American accent, she had revealed nothing but matter-of-fact curiosity, and his general reluctance to talk about his upbringing had only been a slight niggle at the back of his mind. Telling her about his father's art collection, he'd revealed only what he had to, and she had expressed her disinterest in art convincingly enough that he, five minutes later, accepted her invitation without hesitation. 

Fiddling with the radio in order to catch the 5 o'clock news, he continued down Quai de l’Archevêché and listened idly, wondering for a moment whether Gaby would be home this evening, or if she had another banquet to disappear off to. His sister could be delightfully standoffish when faced with Parisian high society, but she sure had a knack for charming them, those she enchanted happily attributing her temper to her German ancestry, and her kid gloves to her late foster father in turn. Solo smiled. Papa had been so happy at her first-- 

"And now, in the world of art. At an auction this morning, an impressionist masterpiece by Paul Cézanne fetched an astonishing price." 

Suddenly alert, he pulled over and slowed to a stop, turning up the volume. 

"-- from the prestigious Bonnet collection. The spirited bidding concluded at 515,000 Dollars." Solo was glad for his sunglasses in that moment, as he was sure that his eyes had widened to the size of saucers. 

Quickly checking over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, he put his car back on the road and hurried home. 

 

* * *

 

 

Marcel opened the door for him when he arrived at the house, the butler possessing the uncanny ability to know exactly when to appear out of thin air and then shimmer out of a room precisely when needed. 

"Good evening, Marcel," he greeted him, and handed over his briefcase and then pocketed his sunglasses, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the brightly-lit entryway. "Thank you. Is my sister home?" 

"Yes, she's upstairs. Should I fetch her?" 

"No, that’s alright, I'll go up." Taking the stairs two at a time, he bounded up into the first floor. Taking determined steps towards the armoire at the end of the hallway, he felt at odds with himself – family pride made this a matter between brother and sister, but what constituted the source of pride in their family rather ran counter to society's idea of accomplishment. 

Clambering through the hidden door, trying not to get too much dust onto his new suit, he stopped for a moment to get his bearings. Following the hum of the old projector and the sounds of someone tinkering with jars of water, brushes, and colour palettes that have been so familiar to him all his life, he eventually found his sister, hunched over in front of a canvas. She was wearing her paint-splotched work coat over her clothes, her hair pulled back into a pony tail and wrapped up in a scarf. Substituting paint for oil and pigment for grease, she might as well have been a mechanic, such was her single-minded dedication. 

"Hello, brother dear," she greeted him, still not taking her eyes off the canvas. He walked around her to get a look, and suppressed the urge to rub at his brow. 

On a stretched canvas a few feet away, Gaby was projecting a close-up of one of van Gogh's paintings. Specifically, his _signature_. Not again! 

"You know, it's fascinating how you can get so much done in a day," he finally broke the silence. He began to pace, up and down the narrow studio crammed into the hidden space under the roof, his long legs traversing the space easily. Looking out of one of the round windows, he could see the rooftops of Paris, tranquil and unsuspecting. 

"Is it?" Gaby responded absently. 

"Yes," he stepped up behind her and leaned over to peck her on the cheek. She half-turned and put a hand on his arm. 

"Careful, I'm covered with paint."*

"And with money,"* he quickly snapped now that he had her attention. Gaby made a dismissive gesture with her hand, but Napoleon was determined. "I heard all about the auction on the radio. And now here you are, completing work on another one!" 

Gaby smiled, pleased with herself. "Yes! And isn't it kind of him to only use his first name – I can sign him in half the time."*

"Gaby, so soon?" 

"Oh don’t worry, this long-lost masterpiece won't see the light of day for a long time. We'll put it on the wall, it will be admired, and perhaps, one day, we'll be persuaded to part with it."*

"We—Gaby, we're going to have to have a long, serious talk."*

"Pfft," his sister made that noise at once familiar and foreign, one of the few habitual remnants of her childhood along with her ever so slightly accented French, "I could have sold a dozen Cézannes today! Besides, I only sell them to rich people. It's not my fault they know nothing about art." 

"Sister, you're a scoundrel, just like Papa." 

"Thank you, brother mine." 

Solo sighed – that had not gone the way he'd planned it. "It's a serious crime, Gaby," he tried again. 

Before she could answer, a sharp trill sounded out below them. Hurrying to the window, Solo felt his blood go cold at what he saw. "Police!" 

"What?!" His usually unflappable sibling now flew into action, covering the painting on its easel with a scrap of fabric. Then, she joined him at the window, already taking off her coat. A few tense seconds passed as they watched not one, but two police vans drive into the courtyard, several gendarmes on motorcycles alongside. In front, there was a black Citroën DS, and from it emerged a distinguished-looking figure, even from the relative distance. 

Beside him, inexplicably, Gaby relaxed. 

"Oof, you gave me a fright! That's Waverly, from the museum." 

"The museum?" 

"He's the director of the Kléber-Lafayette Museum. He's here about the Cellini Venus." 

That did it. That was it, Solo would have to sit down and find the nearest bottle of brandy as soon as possible. 

"You can't be serious." 

"Oh, but I am." Freeing her hair from the scarf, Gaby carded her fingers through the front strands to make herself presentable. Opening the door and hurrying down the winding, narrow staircase, she was gone nearly before he could blink. Bounding after her, he caught up with her in the first-floor hallway. 

"I'll be with you in just a moment, Monsieur Waverly!" 

"Take your time," a deep and rather pleasant voice wafted up towards them. Solo gaped at nothing for a minute and then pulled himself together. 

"The Venus? _Our_ Venus?" 

"What other Venus would I be referring to?" Gaby shot back whilst dabbing cologne onto her wrists and spraying some over her hair to mask any lingering smell of paint. 

"Stop spraying,"* Solo made a face when one pump from the vaporiser hit him square in the face. "Gaby, our Venus is a _fake_!"*

"Hush!" She admonished him. "That is a word we don't use in this house*, Papa taught you better than that."

"Gaby, I can't let you do this!" 

"Let me?" she bit out, her voice flat. She raised her eyebrow at him and he tilted his head down at her, raising his own in response. A silent conversation passed between them, practised over years of adolescence and their father being exasperated with their arguments when he was trying to paint. "Fine, yes, I know what you mean," she conceded, "it's your reputation, too." 

He nodded, straightening again without towering over her. "It's too dangerous,"* he added quietly, not wanting to risk Waverly hearing them. 

"I know what I'm doing, Napoleon. Come along, you'll like Waverly. He's impeccably honest and extremely dull."*

Despite her petite size, she easily pushed him aside to make her way down the staircase. 

 

* * *

 

 

The meeting with Waverly, who had come to collect the Venus the morning before the exhibition's grand opening, was nothing short of torturous. Solo made several small attempts to sabotage the whole thing, but Gaby was too quick for him. And besides, the Venus may have been a fake, but it was _their_ Venus, and Great-grandmother Andrée wouldn't have been best-pleased to find her likeness smashed to pieces just because her descendants had no sense of self-preservation. 

When Waverly was finally gone, Gaby sidled up to him and nudged his arm with her shoulder. 

"So, how did you find Monsieur Waverly?"  

Napoleon could only barely keep himself from rolling his eyes. "Of course, it's a lucky thing that the man who shall put us both in jail is quite handsome." 

"I'm glad you think so." 

Moving towards the liquor tray, Gaby secured that glass of brandy for her brother. "You should be pleased, you know. It's one of the things Papa wanted us to do before he died." 

Solo accepted the glass and sat down in one of the chaises. "I wasn't aware the preparations had already gone this far. I also wasn't aware you were continuing Papa's work," he scolded her, albeit gently. What's done is done. "Weren't you going to go to Berlin, look for your father?" 

Gaby turned her head towards him whilst preparing herself a drink. "I don't have a father." 

Napoleon regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth, but he knew that it was one of the things Papa had asked _her_ to do. He tried a different tack. "Neither do I, now." 

Her expression softened. It had only been five months, after all. Add to that about 25 years since either of them had had a mother, and they didn’t have the best track record. 

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the Venus," she admitted quietly, sitting down next to him. "It's not like I'm the one whom the family resemblance is going to get into trouble. Please make sure not to get photographed too close to it." 

He sighed. "Why would I be photographed with it?" 

"Didn't you hear? The opening's tonight." At his 'carry on' gesture, she continued, "and obviously, being my brother and the Bonnet family's remaining _biological_ male heir, you'll be expected to be there." 

"Oh, no," he groaned and sank into the plush material at his back. "Please don't make me, I can't go." 

"Solo," she needled (and, oh, that was low, using his family nickname) "you're being a wuss." 

"Fine, then. I _won't_ go. It's one thing to let it out of the house, but I won't be party to having our name all over the newspapers. And no, I'm not pleased." 

"100 souvenir postcards, Napoleon! Isn't that exciting? Our Venus!"*

Solo made a face and raised his glass in a half-hearted salute. "There are chills running up and down my spine."*

Gaby scoffed. "The basic trouble with you is that you're honest. And I am saying that to hurt your feelings."*

"Yes, well." 

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, Napoleon decided he’d retire early. He had, in fact, managed to weasel out of that odious grand opening, with Gaby delivering his apologies to Waverly and the reporters covering the event. Curled up with the latest issue of »Alfred Hitchcock magazine«, he’d resolved to get a good look at the exhibition later in the week. A good murder mystery helped calm the nerves, Napoleon found, and he’d made himself a cup of hot cocoa for a nightcap. Slipping further underneath the covers, he stretched much like a cat in the sun. Outside, the night was quiet, darkness settled. 

_CLICK._  

Solo let the thin paperback drop to his chest. He’d heard an odd noise, like an old window creaking open. He lay still, holding his breath, straining his ears for any other sounds. It was probably just the house complaining of its old age. 

Nothing else came, so he shook his head and told himself it was just the detective story in his hands leading his imagination astray. Picking it up from his chest, he continued reading. Everything was quiet, and peaceful. 

_SKREET._  

Fairly flinging the book onto the bed next to him, Solo sat up straight. His pulse kicked up a notch. There was definitely someone in the house with him, and it was too early to be Gaby. Not bothering to put on his robe on top of his pyjamas, he pushed off the covers and slipped out of bed, tip-toeing towards the door as quietly as he could. His room was the first one to the right of the stairs leading downstairs, so he’d have to take care not to alert whoever it was to his presence right away. 

Opening the door carefully, he stood stock still and listened some more. There wasn’t a lot of movement, but the intruder was fiddling with _something_. Taking a decisive step forward, Solo made his way towards the landing. On the wall near the top of the stairs, there was an old coat of arms, with two pistols attached to the wood underneath it. Reaching out slowly, uncertainly peering down into the darkness at the bottom of the stairs, Solo managed to dislodge one of them without making too much noise. Weighing their heft in his hand, he wondered if they ever _had_ been fired. He was no friend of guns, but even he knew that old duelling pistols were hardly to be trusted for their accuracy. Still, it would have to do; and hopefully simple intimidation would suffice. 

Taking a deep breath, he ventured down the steps, feeling his way along the wall for the light switch. When his fingers brushed the fixture, he swallowed. Now or never, he supposed. 

_Click._

The light turned on, and the figure he’d barely been able to make out in the shadows whirled around, half-hidden behind the painting they’d taken off the wall. Letting his eyes adjust to the change in lighting, Solo raised the weapon. 

“Don’t move,”* he ordered, his voice betraying more outrage than fear. Good. Slowly, he moved closer, his target the telephone on the little table at the foot of the stairs. 

The burglar, for that was what Solo was now sure he was, was still hiding his face behind the painting, and all he could see was full, blond hair and a pair of pale blue eyes. Eyes that were tracking his every move. 

“Put down that painting. Put it down,”* he repeated, gesturing with the gun in his hand. The man complied, setting it down at his feet and leaning the back of it against an armchair. Without the cover, he revealed a broad chest, long legs, a well-tailored tuxedo, and a rather nonplussed expression. Solo registered absently that a tux was certainly odd evening attire for any respectable thief. 

“I’m calling the police,”* he announced, merely to avoid any confusion, but the burglar took an impulsive step forward and, with his foot, knocked over the painting he’d been trying to lift. Before Solo could finish dialling the number for their local station, he stilled. The van Gogh – and definitely not van Gogh’s van Gogh. Marcel had put it on the wall just before leaving for the night. Hesitating, Solo looked between the fake masterpiece and the thief. “Why did you choose that particular painting?”*

“It was the handiest,”* came the quick reply, and it certainly knocked Solo for a six. The man had a deep, cultured voice, and a noticeable Soviet accent. Incapable of answering, Solo watched as he picked the painting up off the floor. “I was only taking one painting. You have so many, you would hardly miss it.”* When still no answer was forthcoming from Solo, the stranger shrugged. “I’ll put it back.” 

And so he did, hefting the frame with ease and putting it back in its (mostly rightful, considering it was a forgery) place. The thief turned and smiled sheepishly, as if saying, ‘See, all back as it was.’ But then, he took another step forward, and Solo put down the receiver, raised the gun instead, and found his voice. 

“Stay where you are.” 

The man stopped in his tracks and raised his hands, too, for good measure. 

“You knew my sister and the servants were out. How?”* Solo questioned. Again, the burglar stepped forward and to the right, and Solo followed his movements with the pistol, too rattled to demand he stand still. 

“It’s my job to know things like this,”* he replied in a damned conversational tone. “If I frightened you, I’m sorry. I need to go.” 

“Just a minute,” Solo found himself saying. “Where did you think I would be?” 

“The grand opening, with your sister,” the burglar shrugged again. “Big event like that… but you frightened me, so we are even.”*

He was far too close now for Solo’s liking, so he urged him to take a step back by turning his body into what he hoped looked like the stance of a man ready to shoot someone. (Really, all he had to go on were the latest episodes of “The Avengers” or “The Saint.”) It worked, however. Well, mostly. 

“That gun,” the man pointed, “is not loaded, is it?”* His tone was challenging, and Solo bristled. 

“Of course it is,”* he replied with false confidence, and nearly dislocated his thumb cocking the hammer back using only one hand. He managed, though, and he took some small pleasure at the shadow of discomfort passing over the other man’s face. It only then occurred to him to ask. “Are you armed?”*

“Боже мой! Of course not.” Slowly, the thief unbuttoned his jacket and showed Solo the insides. And, well, the tux was tailored in such a way that a gun simply would have ruined the lines. 

“Fine, then.” Solo swallowed. “I’m gonna let you go. I don’t know why, but--”* _CRACK_. As he put the gun down on the side table, a shot rang out, tearing through the hushed quiet around them. Solo backed away instinctively, a few steps up the stairs, whilst the burglar lay a few feet away from where he’d been standing, his back to Solo, curled up. Getting his breath back under control, Solo ventured towards him at the same time as the man turned, a hand on his right bicep, seeking his gaze. Moving closer, he watched the burglar reach inside his sleeve. When Solo was close enough, he withdrew his hand, palm upwards. There was blood on it. Solo let himself lean against a marble-covered pillar, his gaze fixed on the man’s own eyes wide with shock. The thief swayed where he stood, and Solo let himself slide towards the ground, his back against the pillar. 

A few moments later, a large hand lightly slapped Solo’s cheek. Tearing his eyes open, he found himself face-to-face with his handsome burglar. 

Said burglar pointed to his ruined, shot-through sleeve. 

“I’m the one who is bleeding,”* he reminded Solo matter-of-factly, and Solo quickly nodded and scrambled to get up. 

“The kitchen is through there,” he said, pointing the way. 

“The kitchen?” 

“Yes. And in it, a first-aid kit.” 

Only vaguely conscious of how silly he probably looked, Solo wrapped a large kitchen towel around his waist and tucked it into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms at his back. He motioned for the other man to sit at the table in the corner. 

"Let's take a look," he prompted, turning around with the first-aid kit in hand. 

Eyeing him somewhat dubiously, the burglar nonetheless did as he was told and removed his jacket, looking a bit peeved as he slowly pulled his arm out of it, then rolled up his shirtsleeve. 

Solo screwed the cap off the bottle of iodine and soaked some cotton in the disinfectant. 

"What is that?" 

"Iodine," he replied curtly. "It's going to hurt, but I suggest you take it like a--" 

"This is not the Russian way," the man groused. Whether he was averse to iodine instead of vodka or the idea of disinfectant as a whole, Solo didn't wait to find out. 

"Well, you're in Paris," he said smartly, then stepped around until he was next to him and unceremoniously pressed the cotton to the wound. 

To his credit, the Russian barely flinched at the pain – but Solo did jump when a large hand suddenly covered his that was still holding the gauze. 

"I can do that," the man muttered, not looking up at Solo. Embarrassed by his own reaction, Solo fairly yanked his own hand out from under and stepped away. 

Casting about for something to say, he opted for the obvious. "I suppose you don't get shot at very often." 

"Of course not," the stranger sniffed disdainfully. "I... am a society burglar."*

Solo carefully held in the snort of laughter that threatened to escape him. 

"Is that why you're wearing a tuxedo? The society burglar's disguise?" Solo couldn't resist questioning. Before said burglar could respond, he added, "Still, you'd have to expect some occupational hazard." 

He gestured for the other man to lift his hand. The Russian hissed as Solo tightly secured a large bandage to cover the wound. 

"Don't be such a baby,"* he admonished more out of a compulsion he felt to make a nuisance of himself and being peeved at his ruined evening rather than any actual judgement. Still, it needed to be said. "It's only a flesh wound."*

"Happens to be my flesh,"* the Russian groused back, haphazardly tugging on his shirtsleeve. 

"Fine," Solo shrugged. He put the first-aid kit back together, hoping against hope that Marcel would not notice it had been used. Having put it back in its place, he returned to the table and leaned his hip against it, reaching up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Look, it's late and I need to go to work in the morning. You should leave before Gaby comes back." 

The other man turned to look up at him, his blue eyes slightly widened in surprise. "You work?"* He sounded pleased, for some infernal reason. 

Solo frowned down at him. "Some people do, you know."* He tugged the kitchen towel out of his waistband and draped it over the back of another chair, his fingers not quite obeying him when they continued smoothing out the fabric after there were no more folds or wrinkles. 

The Russian shrugged. "Alright, I'm going." He got up from the table and went about putting himself back together, Solo following on his heels. Solo resolutely did not follow the movements of the muscles in his back and shoulders as he put his jacket back on. Not one bit. He switched off the kitchen light and stepped back into the brightly lit hall. Stopping, he looked to the burglar, waiting for him to announce his departure and see himself out; Solo made a mental note to find the window he'd used to get in and close it before he went back upstairs. 

Tall as he was, Solo had to tilt his head up to look at him, and couldn't help but notice the angle of his jaw – it really was too much. When his gaze met the Russian's, he was surprised by the expression of mischief that met him. It seemed out of place on one so serious. 

"I... am not sure I can drive myself back to my hotel,"* the Russian said, and Solo opened his mouth to protest the obvious silliness of such a statement, but the man seemed to have hit his stride and spoke over him, "I am weak from shock, and loss of blood."* To perfect the charade, that long-fingered hand came up again to cover his bicep; the look on his face that of a wounded bear for all Solo knew. 

The Russian (and Solo was tired of calling him that inside his head, but he'd be damned if he asked for his name) was playing a good game, and Solo couldn't resist the bait. 

"I'll call you a taxi,"* he offered and went for the telephone again. "And pay for it, is that alright?"* he asked with a sarcastically deferential gesture. 

"If it were up to me, fine," the man responded entirely too casually, "but that would leave my car in your right outside your gate. I am wanted. There could be questions."*

Solo just stared at him for a moment. "I'll _drive_ you home, how's that?" 

The answering smug expression spurred him into action. "Oh, how I'd like to take another shot at you,"* he grumbled under his breath, but a hushed bark of laughter behind his back told him his opinion had been heard. In his pique, he merely threw a coat on over his pyjamas and stepped into a pair of comfortable loafers that were kept in the tiny coat closet underneath the stairs for exactly such an occasion. Well, not exactly: he usually put them on when fetching the paper or running to the bistro across the street for fresh croissants when Marcel was out for the weekend. Ferrying thieves back to their hotel was a rather unusual occurrence, even in this... unconventional household. 

Bundling his burglar outside, Solo motioned for him to lead the way. When they stopped at a rather sleek cabriolet, Solo nearly huffed with disbelief, but restrained himself. Fine. He held his hand out for the keys and received them forthwith. 

"No smart comment?" the Russian needled him. 

"Not a word," Solo denied him and snapped up the keys. Getting into the car and adjusting the seat a little, he asked, "and now, where to?" 

"The Ritz." 

Solo stopped moving. "The _what_?" 

"The Ritz, it's on the Place Vendôme --" 

"I know where it is," Solo cut him off. He leaned back into the driver seat. "You're a very _chic_ burglar, aren't you?"*

The drive was uneventful, mostly because whenever the Russian made to say something, Solo cut him off with a glare. To his surprise, the other man acquiesced every time and stopped attempting conversation after the fourth try or so. 

When they arrived at the Ritz, Solo threw the car in park. "Welcome home." 

"Why, thank you," the Russian murmured, then got out of the car. The hotel's valet approached him and sent a page to take care of the car. Solo got out himself and handed over the keys. 

"Good evening, Monsieur Kuryakin," the valet greeted the Russian, and while Solo was mainly boggling at the jovial tone, he couldn't help the frisson that ran through him at learning the man's name without having to stoop to asking. It was enough to make him momentarily forget the embarrassment of standing outside the Ritz in the dead of night, clad only in his sleepwear, a coat, and well-worn loafers. Armand, to his credit, merely nodded at him respectfully and smiled with his eyes. 

"Good evening, Armand. It seems I am in need of a taxi," Kuryakin replied, and immediately the valet raised his hand and whistled. From the long line of cabs curled along the square, one crawled forward. Kuryakin turned and walked closer to Solo. 

"Now you know my name," he came right to the point.

Solo's brain stuttered as something occurred to him. "Hang on. Kuryakin... is your real name?" 

Kuryakin looked at him, askance. " _Da_. Of course it is." 

Before Solo could reply, he became aware of a taxi cab pulling up next to them. Armand opened the door for him and, instinctively, he moved towards his ride home. Just as he got there, however, he turned. "I forgot my wallet." 

"See, always good to make friends. You never know when you need someone to bail you out," Kuryakin declared, and Solo was serious about that second shot. His grouchy response was cut off by Kuryakin leaning past him to hand the driver a few bills. "There, that should cover it." 

"Now I suppose you're going to declare us even." 

Kuryakin shot Armand a quick look, who softly cleared his throat and let go of the cab door, walking away to return to his post by the entrance. "Not quite. You see, back at your house, I forgot to wear gloves. So, before you go to bed, give the frame a quick wipe with a clean cloth, alright?" 

Solo's head started spinning the way it used to when he listened to Gaby and his father debate the methods of acquiring authentic dirt for forging period canvases. At length. "Certainly," he quipped, "anything else?" His annoyance making him bolder than he felt, he leaned closer to the Russian. "I suppose you want to kiss me goodnight."* Solo couldn’t stop to check whether he was blushing, because all thought fairly careened to a halt when he saw Kuryakin's eyes flicker down to glance at his mouth. 

"I don't usually on first acquaintance, but..."*

Solo barely had time to collect his wits before two strong hands grabbed his upper arms and he was pulled forward. Eyes wide, he let himself be manhandled as Kuryakin bestowed upon him the Soviet tradition of a brotherly kiss on both cheeks. He further let himself be carefully wrangled into the cab. 

"Drive safe," the Russian murmured. "And goodbye." 

 

* * *

 

 

Solo all but stumbled into the parlour twenty minutes later, still slightly dazed. It took a solid ten seconds for him to realise that the lights were, in fact, on and that Gaby had returned home in the time he was gone. 

"Solo! Oh, it's a pity you weren't at the opening, we would have had so much fun!" his sister called when she saw him come in, a glass of champagne in her hand, not really taking in his odd appearance at first. But then her gaze sharpened. "I thought you were going to stay in tonight?" 

"I was," Solo agreed. "But then, I caught a burglar." 

Gaby, mid-sip, nearly spat it back out. "A burglar? In this house?"*

"Yes, and guess what he was after," Solo replied, wasting no time with games and pointing right at the van Gogh on the wall. 

Gaby's eyes widened. "Oh. _Oh._ " 

"Oh is right," Solo agreed. 

His sister quickly uncorked a bottle of brandy. "Here, drink this, and start at the beginning." 

Gratefully, Solo took the offered glass and took a sip. "I was already in bed, reading, you and Marcel had left a while ago. And then, I heard these noises coming from down here and I got up to investigate. I turned on the light, and there he was." He took another sip. "Tall, blue eyes... quite good-looking,"* Solo trailed off, but was startled back into reality by his sister's watchful gaze. "In a mean, brutal way! Terrible man, really. No sense of guilt or shame, that's for certain."* 

"You debated all that, did you?" 

Solo shrugged. "That was later, when I was driving him home."*

"What?!" 

"I had to, I shot him with one of Papa's old pistols."*

Gaby's expression was still dubious, but she let it slide. "Alright. So you let him go?" 

"Yes." 

"Good. A police investigation is the last thing we need." 

"Quite." Solo finished his drink and put his glass back on the tray. "Good night." 

"Good night, Solo." 

He was halfway to the stairs, when he heard his sister's voice calling after him. "Solo... that tall, good-looking ruffian with blue eyes... he didn't... hurt you in any way, did he?"* 

Solo turned slowly and shook his head. "Not much."* He was about to walk up the stairs when he remembered. Spying his sister's purse on the table by the telephone, he quickly pilfered one of her handkerchiefs and went back into the parlour, towards the painting. 

"Napoleon?" 

"Just one thing," he murmured. He eyed the painting for a moment, then bent and slowly ran the cloth along the frame from the bottom up. When he was done, he turned and handed it back to his sister. "All done," he smiled at her, then turned and walked towards the stairs. 

Watching her brother slowly disappear from view, Gaby was left to wonder if they'd ever see that burglar again. And whether it would be wise to make sure that they did.


	2. A Chance Encounter, and Dinner at Maxim's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over breakfast the next morning, Solo got the distinct impression that Gaby was only barely refraining from asking more questions about the burglar. Instead, she gently bullied him into attending the exhibition. It was Saturday, so he had no earthly reason not to – or so she told him. Reluctantly, he agreed.
> 
> “Might as well,” he said before draining his coffee cup. “But if the whole thing goes up in smoke because Waverly notices that I have grandmother’s brow line, I’m still blaming you.”
> 
> “Fair enough,” Gaby conceded, smiling like she knew something he didn’t.
> 
> She always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little shorter, but I wanted to publish anyway -- consider it a little appetiser before we get to the meat of the story ;)

Over breakfast the next morning, Solo got the distinct impression that Gaby was only barely refraining from asking more questions about the burglar. Instead, she gently bullied him into attending the exhibition. It was Saturday, so he had no earthly reason not to – or so she told him. Reluctantly, he agreed.

“Might as well,” he said before draining his coffee cup. “But if the whole thing goes up in smoke because Waverly notices that I have grandmother’s brow line, I’m still blaming you.”

“Fair enough,” Gaby conceded, smiling like she knew something he didn’t.

She always did.

Solo put on his Saturday best and decided that sunglasses were a good disguise, but a hat would be pushing it. He arrived at the museum at about 11am, finding a lucky parking spot near the entrance. The Kléber-Lafayette Museum was wedged in between the Élysee Palace and the Ministry of the Interior, and in this area, cars tended to outweigh foot traffic.

He bought a ticket and strolled past the wardrobe into the grand hall. It was the centre of the museum, with corridors branching off into the other wings and winding marble staircases leading up and around to the upper floors. Solo’s heels clicked smartly on the checkered marble floor as he walked close enough to see the Venus, but stopped to avoid getting caught up in the throng that was circled around the statue, the stream of people moving closer to admire it and then moving on never drying up. Loathe to call attention to himself, he stayed out of the thick of it, partly obscured by a pillar.

Realising with a start that what he was doing may soon garner him some unwanted scrutiny, too, he moved to take off his shades. Turning to move up the stairs and observe the hubbub from a different vantage point, Solo was surprised when he suddenly made contact with a brick wall. A very solid, very tall brick wall with blue eyes.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, stumbling back a little. “You!”

“Good morning, Monsieur Bonnet,” Kuryakin greeted him. His delivery was still serious, but under the circumstances, Solo suspected that the inflection could be considered amiable.

“What on earth are you doing here?”* he questioned before he could stop himself, and the Russian had the gall to look disappointed by his lack of manners.

“You are not very polite to people you shoot in the arm, are you?”

Solo could not be entirely sure, but he felt like he was being teased by a Soviet brick wall.

“Lower your voice,” he hissed to cover his own embarrassment. “And I ask again, what are you-- ”

“Ah,” Kuryakin looked at something over Solo’s right shoulder and set a hand to his elbow to gently pull him along with him. Perplexed, Solo turned with him only to remember _what_ was currently on display that could have captured Kuryakin’s attention.

“Oh no,” he protested and dug his heels in, figuratively speaking. “You are not going near her.”

“Just a quick look,” Kuryakin assured him, which had the exactly opposite effect.

“You can’t expect me to--”

“Monsieur Bonnet!” a distinguished voice greeted him. Solo and Kuryakin turned as one, Kuryakin hesitating briefly before dropping his hand from Solo’s arm. Waverly, the museum’s director, walked towards them from the direction of the staircase. “What a pleasure to see you here today, visiting your Venus, as it were. And who’s your companion?”

Before Solo could find his voice, Kuryakin introduced himself. “Illya Kuryakin,” holding out his hand. Waverly nodded and shook it affably.

“Welcome to our museum, Monsieur Kuryakin, and what an honour to receive someone who must have travelled far to be here.”

Solo wanted for nothing but the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

“Now, are you interested in art, Monsieur Kuryakin?”*

“Oh, certainly,” the Russian replied.

Waverly waved them along and they followed, Kuryakin with all the earnest curiosity of a schoolboy on his face, and Solo busy trying to make himself invisible.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Waverly crowed. “Now, don’t worry, Monsieur Bonnet, we doubled the number of guards in the museum at night.”

Solo forced himself to act as though he weren’t standing next to a known art thief and as though he weren’t extremely worried about the Venus suffering the same fate.

“Guards? Oh, you mean to protect – Mr Waverly, the thought had never even crossed my mind. Nor my sister’s,” he added for good measure.

“Ah, but you can never be too careful. Now, I know what you’re thinking, what if someone were to sneak in and try to grab the Venus during a moment of inattention!”

“Again, Monsieur Waverly, I--” Solo attempted to steer the conversation away from the subject of burglary, but Kuryakin interrupted him.

“Please go on, I am very interested in security,” the Russian prompted the director. _Of course you are,_ Solo thought uncharitably.

“Thank you. Well, the answer is: he cannot. You see these lights set into the top and the bottom of the display? They emit an electromagnetic frequency, forming a sort of field around the Venus. Any interruption to the circuit and,” he snapped his fingers, “instant alarm.”*

“Bravo, Monsieur Waverly,” Solo jumped in before Kuryakin could think to ask any ridiculous questions. “Now, we really must be going.”

“Ah, but you must be wondering what were to happen if someone from the outside deactivated the alarm!”

Before Solo could reply, Kuryakin butted in, “I was going to ask just that.” Solo shot him a withering glare.

“Good question! But, not to worry, the alarm system works like the door to a vault; and only myself and two trusted guards have the combination.”*

“Fascinating,” Kuryakin commented, and Solo nudged him in the ribs with his elbow.

“Fascinating indeed,” Solo agreed amiably, “but sadly, we really must be going.”

“Oh! Good bye, then, Monsieur Bonnet. Monsieur Kuryakin, if you’re staying, would you like to know more about--”

“I’m sure he would, Monsieur Waverly, but Mon-- Illya is coming with me,” Solo interrupted, and now he was the one pulling on Kuryakin’s elbow.

“Am I?” Kuryakin asked curiously, but let himself be turned around. “Good bye,” he threw over his shoulder to the confused-looking Waverly.

Still dragging the Russian along, Solo was internally fuming. As soon as they cleared the gated entrance to the museum, he let go of Kuryakin’s arm.

“Now go away or I’ll call a policeman,”* he threatened.

“Have you considered working as a spy?” Kuryakin queried as Solo got into his car. “You had poor Waverly convinced you like me, and now you do this.”

When no reply was forthcoming, Kuryakin continued, “Listen, I need to speak with you, privately. It is important. He laid a hand on Solo’s shoulder to convince him to stay, but Solo just glared at him over his shoulder and summarily drove off. In his rear-view mirror, he saw the Russian stumble forward a little before regaining his footing and staring after him for a moment before turning back towards the museum. At the first chance, Solo turned a corner.

 

* * *

 

 

Solo had just finished putting on his suit and was putting the finishing touches to his hair when a light knock sounded on the door.

“Napoleon?”

“Come in.”

Gaby entered and closed the door behind herself. “Marcel tells me you are dining out tonight.”*

“Yes, dinner at Maxim’s.”

“Ooh, really? Special occasion?”

“Not particularly, an American industrialist I met at the embassy. Victoria Vinciguerra.” Satisfied with his handiwork, Solo stepped away from the mirror in his ensuite bathroom and found his sister standing at the window, looking outside.

“And she’s picking _you_ up, I see.”

“Yes, she’s determined that way.”

“Hmm. Wait. Victoria Vinciguerra?” Gaby turned from the window to look at him.

“Do you know her?”

“Do I, she approached me – oh, I didn’t even tell you: someone offered me a million dollars for the Venus a few months ago, shortly after Papa passed. That was her!”

Staring at her, Solo sat down heavily on the ottoman at the foot of his bed.

“Yes, she’s one of the most open-handed art collectors in the whole of America,”* Gaby continued. “When she couldn’t get the Venus, she still offered Papa an unholy sum, as you would say, for that lovely Toulouse-Lautrec.”

“Papa’s Lautrec, or Lautrec’s Lautrec?”*

“Papa’s, naturally,” Gaby smiled slyly at him. Solo groaned into his hand. “Are you implying our Lautrec is in any way inferior?”*

“You’re telling me… she mentioned our family name as though it were only vaguely familiar. She said she didn’t like art, at all! She must have arranged to meet me.”*

“Napoleon…”

“If she suspects something, I’ll find out.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s just dinner, I doubt she’ll have a dozen policemen in her entourage.”

“Alright. I’ll probably go to bed early, but if… if it’s bad, wake me up when you get home, alright?”

“I will. Don’t worry, sister. It’ll be alright. I’ll put on my bow-tie, will you go downstairs and keep her company?”

“Of course.”

Unbeknownst to Napoleon, on the other side of town, one Illya Kuryakin was walking into the office of a well-known art dealer named Sanders, who was eager to hear about his exploits the previous night.

 

* * *

 

 

At Maxim’s, dinner was going as well as it could between two people who barely knew each other and, at first glance, didn’t have a lot in common. Victoria Vinciguerra was a true American industrialist, as Europeans were fond of calling them, the title not merely a descriptor but a whole dictionary on new money, upstart capitalists, and uncultured suburbanites.

Solo found her quite charming. She was straight-laced and determined, as he’d told his sister, albeit a little single-minded in her business efforts so as to appear unable to talk about much else. Then again, he admired her tenacity as well as her stunning looks, so it really was no harm.

“… which is a subsidiary of Eastern Coal and Coke,” she concluded that particular anecdote.

“Eastern Coal and Coke,” he repeated to show he was still following.

“Yes, and that in turn is a subsidiary of Western Wool and Flax,” she confirmed.

“Fascinating,” he lied only a little. Truth be told, he had missed a few subsidiaries in between, but his dessert really was exceptionally good. “Now: what’s your growth factor?”

“Oh, you’re marvellous!” Victoria laughed. “You see, I have trouble talking with men – they see a woman with a bigger portfolio and they suddenly feel very small. But you – it’s like you’re a member of the board.”*

Solo grinned back at her. Even knowing that there was a rather large elephant hiding somewhere in the packed dining room and quite certain that they had too little in common to really hit it off, he was pleased.

“Victoria – I’m glad we’re having such a wonderful time… if only I could shake the feeling that there was a topic you’ve been trying to avoid.” Indeed, any time he’d attempted to carefully nudge the conversation towards his family or their art collection, she’d found another subsidiary to talk about. Now, however, being called on it, she gave a sigh and nodded.

“You’re right. Napoleon, I hate to say this… but I can’t stop thinking about it, it’s like an obsession. From the moment I first laid eyes on it, I--”

“Laid eyes on what,” Solo interrupted her with dread crawling up his back.

“The Cellini Venus, of course!”

“The Venus?”

“Yes. I made your father an offer over a year ago, but he refused to sell it. And then… I’m sorry, this will sound terribly crude, but I approached your sister a few months previous, but she also said no. So, in a last-ditch effort, I decided to come to Paris and speak to either one of you directly. When I met you at the embassy, it was like fate. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have deceived you.”

“I… Victoria, that’s--”

“Excuse me, madam,” their waiter suddenly cut in. “A telephone call for you, madam. Long distance, from California.”

“What? How did they track me down here?”* Victoria collected her napkin from her lap and made to get up, but hesitated. “Will you still be here when I get back?”

Solo nodded. “Yes, don’t worry, I won’t run out on you.”

“Thank you. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

She followed the waiter to one of the phone booths near the entrance, leaving Napoleon at the table trying to collect his scattered thoughts. So she wasn’t suspecting anything, she just wanted—

Again, his thoughts were interrupted when someone sat down in the chair across from him. Not expecting Victoria back so soon, he looked up and made to speak, but abruptly closed his mouth when it was _Kuryakin_ smiling at him from across the table.

“No. Not you again.”

“Not a very cordial greeting,”* the Russian had the nerve to complain.

“You’re a society burglar who happens to be a menace to _my_ society, so how about you make it snappy,” Solo hissed, quickly checking their surroundings to see if any of the other patrons had taken notice of the… change in his dinner companion.

“Alright. I need to talk to you, it is important. Meet me tomorrow, at noon, in the bar of the Hotel Ritz.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because what I have to say affects you and your family.”

Solo narrowed his eyes at him. “You really could stand not being quite so cryptic, you know. Now go and call off that fake telephone call.” Over Kuryakin’s shoulder, Solo could spy Victoria heading back towards them, so he quickly knocked his foot against the Russian’s underneath the table, hoping to get him to leave. Thankfully, he took the hint and stood to leave.

“Just remember. Illya Kuryakin, Room 136, the Ritz. It is urgent.” Slipping away just as Victoria was coming closer, Kuryakin held Solo’s gaze as he walked backwards, drawing a few curious glances from other guests after all. Forcing himself to look away, Solo smiled at Victoria as she sat down.

“Where were we?”

“The Venus,” Solo supplied helpfully.

“Of course,” she smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Napoleon. I just… it’s haunting me, and when I saw it at the museum yesterday; I haven’t slept a wink all night.”

As though galvanised by the jarring appearance of his burglar as well as the relief of Victoria not having any suspicions as to the providence of any item in the Bonnet collection, he laughed, startling her (and himself a little, too). “No, don’t apologise. I’m sorry, the Venus is not for sale. If she were, believe me, she’d be on your doorstep in the morning, but I’m afraid nothing can be done.”

Victoria looked crestfallen for all but a second before her aristocratic bearing returned. “Well, then that’s that.”

“Yes,” Solo replied, perhaps a little too chipper. “Now, your consolation prize: shall we dance?”

The small band in residence had been playing a few suitably jazzy numbers all evening, and Victoria gladly accepted his hand. “Now that is a good idea.”


	3. Proposing the Big-Time Caper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bonjours, mademoiselle et monsieur,” the man from the museum greeted them politely. “I am here regarding a technicality on the insurance registered for one statue, twenty-nine inches, in marble, entitled ‘Venus,’ by… Ben..venuto… Cellini?”
> 
> “Insurance?” Gaby asked, remarkably steadily. “It’s never been insured. It’s beyond price!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannnnd it's been another year, lol. Dishonored got me good, guys, but this summer I've carved out some time to tackle my old works in progress.
> 
> Here's the setup for the caper, pls enjoy!!

The next morning, Solo woke refreshed and with a smile on his face. The rest of his evening with Victoria had been pleasant – with the spectre of the Venus out of the way, his sense of dread had dissipated. Well, mostly. Kuryakin’s sudden appearance had thrown a spanner in the works, but Napoleon refused to let his good mood be spoilt. Instead, he showered and dressed for work at the embassy, skipping down the stairs.

Gaby was already up, uncharacteristically, lounging in one of the armchairs in the sitting room, with Marcel just serving bowls of coffee and croissants. Stealing one of each, Solo smiled at her.

“Good morning, sister dear.”

“Ugh,” Gaby grunted behind her newspaper. “Must you be so disgustingly cheery in the morning.”

“Ah, but I must. Don’t you want to know how my rendezvous last night was?”

With a start, Gaby folded down the paper. “Oh god, I’d completely forgotten about that. What happened?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re smiling. Why are you smiling? When you left last night, you were a bundle of nerves and not much common sense besides.”

Solo chose to gracefully ignore the jab. “Well, actually, I have the most wonderful news: as far as Victoria Vinciguerra is concerned, you can go on faking masterpieces for as long as you can hold a brush.”* He dunked his croissant into the coffee and took a healthy bite.

“She what?” Gaby queried, looking suitably wrong-footed. “And you talked about all of that, did you?”

“No,” Solo replied, licking crumbs out of the corner of his mouth. “She revealed to me that she’d only gone on a date with me in hopes of getting to you through me – to get the Cellini Venus. She’s obsessed with it, apparently, and she hoped that if I put in a good word for her…”

Gaby pursed her lips. "Well. If she's so obsessed with the Venus that she would be willing to pay one million dollar for it, I'd say it would be rather rude of us not let her have it, provided we’d be willing to part with it.”

Obviously, now that the danger of being discovered had passed, his dear sister had quite reconsidered her stance on the Venus conundrum.

"On balance, what do you think the gendarmerie is going to consider in poorer taste: selling her a forgery or offending her pride?"

Gaby rolled her eyes good-naturedly at his teasing, their current conversation bearing an uncanny similarity to many such "chats" between Solo and their father. For all that Solo had sworn those conversations had aged him prematurely and given him permanent dizzy spells, he dearly missed them now, and he knew it was the only reason why Gaby endured them.

"And besides," Solo continued, "there must have been a reason neither you nor Papa ever considered selling to her before. Apart from her being shockingly American, that is."

"Our concerns were nothing quite so European, thank you," Gaby quipped. "For one thing, it's your grandmother! The Venus belongs with her family, first and foremost, so selling her would have been undignified. And for another, letting it leave the house to be shown to the public for a few weeks is simple enough, but selling it? Even Papa had misgivings about all those so-called tests."

"Oh, they're not so-called, _they are_ ,"* Solo gestured with his coffee.

Gaby waved a dismissive hand. “No matter. I doubt I shall make up my mind before the season is over, and by then she’ll have long returned to California.“ She paused. “So you didn’t find her… fetching, at all?“

Solo raised a brow at her. “Are you asking for my benefit, or yours?“

Gaby grinned.

Napoleon decided to indulge her. “She’s… beautiful, I suppose. Tall, blonde, excellent jawline…”

His sister’s gaze turned shrewd. “Are you sure you’re not describing someone else?“

Before Solo could rebuke her, Marcel approached the salon.

“Mademoiselle, Monsieur, there’s a gentleman from the museum here to see you.”

Gaby and Solo exchanged a look, and shrugged. “Show him in, Marcel,“ Gaby said eventually. “This early,“ she hummed, “must be a very enterprising young fellow.”*

The ‘enterprising young fellow’ they were met with, however, was a doddery old man barely able to hold his little notepad without looking as though he was ready to keel over.

“Yes?” Gaby prompted.

“Bonjours, mademoiselle et monsieur,” the man from the museum greeted them politely. “I am here regarding a technicality on the insurance registered for one statue, twenty-nine inches, in marble, entitled ‘Venus,’ by… Ben..venuto… Cellini?”*

“Insurance?” Gaby asked, remarkably steadily. “It’s never been insured. It’s beyond price!” They watched as the man removed a few documents from his satchel and started fumbling for a pen in his inner suit pockets. Solo was too surprised to have the mind to help him out with the pen nestled within his own pockets, in easy reach.

“We are quite aware, mademoiselle, but nevertheless a special coverage has been taken out, effective until the work of art is returned to your house in good order.” He had managed to get a good grip on the pen now, and was offering it to Gaby. “This is, of course, at no expense to you and your family. A mere formality, we only require your signature.”

“I just have to sign?” Gaby gestured for the pen.

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

“Alright,” Gaby let out a startled laugh, and let the pen be handed over. She signed the papers without so much as a cursory glance, casting a quick look back at Napoleon over her shoulder as she did so.

“Thank you, mademoiselle. Say, would you and your brother like to be present at the technical examination?”

“T-technical…”

“… Examination?”

Solo felt cold dread settle in his stomach. So there _had_ been something else.

“Of course, it is required for the insurance policy to be enforced, and you have just authorised it. Professor Bauer, I believe is the man’s name, is flying in from Zürich in just a few days.”

“Of course,” Gaby echoed, gone white as a canvas — not that the man noticed, busy tucking his pen away and gathering up the papers.

“The museum will contact you with an exact time and date. Good day to you.“

And with that, the man made his way towards the door, Gaby and Solo trailing behind him, helplessly staring at the satchel their health and happiness had just disappeared into. Solo reached towards it, making vague noises of protest, but the man continued on his way undisturbed. Solo and Gaby stopped when the door closed behind him, then each sank into a visitor’s chair near either wall.

“This Professor Bauer,” Solo began. “Does he know all the tests?”*

“He invented them,” Gaby returned darkly. “At the first breath of suspicion... the entire myth of the Bonnet collection explodes. Everything I've done will be examined and re-examined with X-rays... fluoroscopes, microscopes, shadowgraphs... smelly chemicals and all sorts of.. Ugh.”* She scoffed, and got up, went to say something else, but then seemed to think better of it and headed back into the salon instead.

Solo sat for another moment, then moved to follow her — he found her pouring herself a drink.

“We have to keep them from examining the Venus,“ he said.

She turned to look at him. “What we need to do is send you off to America,” she answered critically.

“If you think for one moment I’m leaving you alone with this mess,“ he started, but she cut him off with a gesture.

“I’m not staying, you idiot. I’m running off to the Orient,” she told him archly, and that nearly startled a laugh out of him.

“Gaby, please. We’ll find a way.” He didn’t tell her that he felt suspiciously as though he had already found one.

She was about to rebuke him, when Marcel interrupted them once more.

“I’m so sorry, but… there is another fellow here to see you. From Germany, I believe, sir, and of a very excitable nature.”

“What?” Solo could only ask; and they had hardly time to tell Marcel to bring the man in when he appeared in the salon of his own volition. A shortish, unremarkable man, with a broad nose and small eyes behind square, horn-rimmed glasses. Definitely German.

“Oh, no,” he heard Gaby groan behind him.

“Oh!” the man exclaimed then, barely paying them any heed, his eyes, instead, on the Van Gogh mounted on the wall. _The_ Van Gogh. “It’s exquisite! Wunderschön, beautiful! Ich sehe die Hand des Meisters, ich—“

“It’s not for sale,“ Gaby interrupted him rudely.

“But you said—”

“No!” Gaby bellowed, and it was almost comical to see how she advanced on the man, who, despite her diminutive size, shrank back. “Go, get out. Go!”

At last the man, after casting one last help-seeking look at Solo, who made absolutely no attempt to intervene on his behalf, turned tail and _ran_ for the door.

“Who was that?” Napoleon asked after a pause.

“Some annoying little man. He approached me after the auction where I sold the Cézanne. I had no idea he would turn up here so soon. I _was_ going to sell him the van Gogh, but now… well now I won’t have the time to.” Resigned, she sat in their father’s favourite armchair.

“What’s the number for the Ritz?” Napoleon asked quietly, as if that had nothing to do with any of this.

“Opera 2830,” Gaby responded absently, but as he turned around to walk to the phone, she tilted her head. “Napoleon?”

“Just promised an old friend I’d ring him back.” He picked up the receiver, and dialled.

* * *

 

At the Ritz bar, Napoleon had already been waiting for ten minutes when Kuryakin arrived — and walked right past him. Solo had to ‘psst’ at his stupidly broad back twice before the Russian caught the hit and looked, really _looked_. At Napoleon’s sharply tailored suit, the brass cufflinks, the understated yet perfectly matched tie. He supposed he could only have gone further by wearing the hat he’d bought with the suit, but that would have been considered terrible manners, especially here. Still Kuryakin seemed to have a hard time recognising him, simply politely nodding hello the first time Solo hissed at him.

He was walking back now, though, and slipping into the booth with him.

“Bonnet?“

“Please,” Napoleon half-raised the hand holding the artfully half-smoked cigarette. (He knew how to project an image, forgeries as good as his family’s. He guessed it was in the blood, after all.) “No names.”

“Alright,” Kuryakin agreed readily enough. “Why are we meeting here, I gave you my room number.”

“Now, Kuryakin—”

“Please,” the Russian interrupted him, and again Solo could swear that was the Soviet version of teasing, “no names.“

Reining in an exasperated sigh, Solo nodded, then decided to just get it over with: “I have need of someone with your… unique talents.“

“Oh?” Kuryakin had the gall to look… somewhat close to innocent.

Solo leaned over slightly. “Are you interested in a big-time caper?”*

“A what?” Kuryakin sure was eloquent today.

“A _heist_.”

“I don’t—” Kuryakin began, then interrupted himself and evidently decided to play along, because the next moment he was sliding closer to Solo and murmuring out of the corner of his mouth.

“What did you have in mind?“

“One million dollars,” Solo murmured back, feeling silly for inexplicably enjoying himself just a little.

“I’m in,” Kuryakin whispered, playing along, and something traitorous at the back of Solo’s mind _trilled_. “What are we hitting?”

“The Kléber-Lafayette Museum.”

Kuryakin abruptly moved away, staring at him. “I’m out,” he declared, expression unchanging. “What is wrong with you?“

“At least listen to me,” Solo hissed.

“Listen? I do not need to listen. One million dollars, you say, but for every one of those dollars, there’s a policeman in that place. I do not like rate of exchange,”* Kuryakin berated him, then suddenly softened. “Why?”

But god, those eyes were blue, Solo caught himself thinking — and just in time, before he could say it out loud. He shoved the thought aside.

“The Cellini Venus, of course.”

“ _Your_ —” Kuryakin interrupted himself and lowered his voice to say, “your Venus? Why? It’s yours.”

“It’s not mine, it’s… sort of in the family.”

“Nevertheless, if you could have your pick of something to steal, why the one thing you already own?”

“You didn’t think I’d steal something that doesn’t belong to me, did you?”* Solo returned, indignant.

Kuryakin shook his head, then nodded, still staring, then frowned at himself. “What am I thinking, sitting here—no.”

Solo, unsure of what to say, just stared at him.

Kuryakin’s eyes narrowed. “Finish your drink, I have to go.” He moved to leave the booth, then abruptly leaned closer again. It was quite giving Solo whiplash. “Are you really serious? You’ve seen how well it is protected.”

“Well, I was hoping to leave that to you.”

Kuryakin looked at him for another long moment, his brow furrowed and his eyes like steel. “It’s too late now, the museum will have closed already.” He waited. “Corner of Avenue Gabriel, Avenue Marigny, 10:00 a.m. Right?”

Solo nodded, fighting not to smile. “Right.” Without another word, he fled the booth, and the bar, leaving the tall Russian to stare after him.

* * *

 

“I don’t suppose we could simply… cause a scene over there and you steal it over here,” Solo whispered, noticing a moment too late how close he had to get to the Russian to be as quiet as he needed to and still be heard. Kuryakin stilled for a moment, but kept his eyes on the Venus, and Solo quickly drew back.

A moment passed, then Kuryakin moved again — to stare at him critically, then look back at the statue. “There is something about her…”

Napoleon wanted nothing but to steer him away from that train of thought, so he urged the other man to take another pass around the pedestal the Venus was positioned on — just to be sure they hadn’t missed anything. Well. To be sure Kuryakin hadn’t missed anything, he was the burglar, after all, and Solo had no earthly idea what to look for. Exits, he supposed? That’s what they always said in the spy stories he liked to read. The trouble here was, however, that they had enough generously demarcated exits — what they needed was a way _inside_.


	4. A Plan, a Walk in the Park, and a Very Different Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a lengthy tour of the entire museum, Kuryakin guiding them in a circuitous route (that Solo gave up on trying to follow after their third pass through the Impressionist wing) while also cleverly avoiding Monsieur Waverly, who had the most unfortunate habit of touring his own museum with a permanent look of utter self-satisfaction, they finally stepped out into a mild spring day. They had met at ten, Solo picking up the Russian in his car, and Kuryakin pointing out the many, many policemen stationed along the way to the museum — of course there were, Solo had told him, after all they were passing through the government district; including the Palais de l'Élysée. (That’s where the president lives.) Kuryakin made a show of grumbling about it incessantly, concluding his miserable attitude with the words, “I can already taste bread and water.” Solo had just about held back from telling him to stuff it — he needed the thief on his good side. He needed this job to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illya is still impossibly tall, which vexes Napoleon to no end; and Victoria has very interesting plans of her own.

After a lengthy tour of the entire museum, Kuryakin guiding them in a circuitous route (that Solo gave up on trying to follow after their third pass through the Impressionist wing) while also cleverly avoiding Monsieur Waverly, who had the most unfortunate habit of touring his own museum with a permanent look of utter self-satisfaction, they finally stepped out into a mild spring day. They had met at ten, Solo picking up the Russian in his car, and Kuryakin pointing out the many, many policemen stationed along the way to the museum — of course there were, Solo had told him, after all they were passing through the government district; including the _Palais de l'Élysée_. (That’s where the president lives.) Kuryakin made a show of grumbling about it incessantly, concluding his miserable attitude with the words, “I can already taste bread and water.” Solo had just about held back from telling him to stuff it — he needed the thief on his good side. He needed this job to work.

“And now?” Solo asked Kuryakin, who’d put on his sunglasses (again, he was a very _chic_ burglar, those were frames even Solo had deemed too expensive for what they were) and was standing, hands in his trouser pockets, head tilted back.

“Now, we contemplate our last day as free men,“ Kuryakin returned snobbishly, and this time Solo at least rolled his eyes before adjusting his own shades.

“Might we do that somewhere a little more out of the way,” he suggested.

Kuryakin turned to look at him, head now tilted _down_ a little, presumably just to drive home how much taller than Solo he was. “Let’s go for a walk.” And so he went, striding off towards where Solo had parked the car.

Solo sighed, watching his retreating back.

“Can’t stand the talk,” he mumbled under his breath, then pulled himself together and followed the Russian.

*

“Now take a left.” Kuryakin knew precisely where he was going, of course.

After a few more turns, Solo simply said, “You could have just told me you wanted to go to the _Jardin des Tuileries_.“

“Is that where we’re going?” Kuryakin feigned ignorance. Solo suspected he was doing all this to rile him so he _would_ lose his temper and give him an excuse to abandon him. Why, if he wanted out, the Russian did not simply tell him to keep his Cellini Venus and starve, he didn’t rightly know. It’d be easier than this game of cat and very irritating mouse. As it was, Solo was not entirely sure who was the cat and who was the mouse. The way Kuryakin was looking at him sideways now, Solo didn’t feel much like he was the one doing the chasing.

*

At the gardens, Kuryakin barely waited for Solo to stop the car before he jumped out, as if desperate to get away. Solo was halfway insulted — his driving was just fine. He was about to say so when Kuryakin turned and frowned at him.

“Your car is very small,” he intoned, and Solo’s gaze was involuntarily drawn down to the Russian’s long legs. When he realised what he was staring at, he quickly looked up again; but Kuryakin’s face betrayed neither embarrassment nor smugness, for once. In fact, his expression was neatly, carefully blank. And he really was unnecessarily tall.

“You drive a cabriolet,” was all Solo could think to say; and before Kuryakin could truly prove himself to be the smuggest, most hateful man, Solo brushed past him towards the entrance of the gardens. “Shall we?”

If they were going to plan their so-called heist in the middle of the Jardin des Tuileries, they’d better get on with it.

*

“So that’s it?” Solo asked after they’d spent at least ten minutes just walking through the park. “We walk, and you don’t talk at all?”

“I’m _thinking_ ,” Kuryakin informed him, and he sounded so suddenly peeved that Solo was startled into silence for another while.

He was debating tugging Kuryakin towards an ice cream vendor when the Russian visibly perked up.

“Wait here,” he made Solo stop with a giant hand on his arm, and then took off at a jog towards where a queue of children was pestering a man selling… toy boomerangs? They’d passed kids all over the park playing with those: just two pieces of light wood, with rounded edges, and held together with rubber bands.

“Oh no,” Solo sighed, doing his best not to give the impression that he was waiting for one of the children or, in fact, the _man child_ in the growing queue. At least Kuryakin had the sense to be impolite and jump the line, the boys around him too startled by his sheer size to rouse too much of a protest. Solo turned his back and did his best to admire some of the arrangements in the flower beds.

He didn’t have to wait long until Kuryakin reappeared at his elbow.

“Come.” He started walking. When Solo didn’t follow, staring at the Russian in exasperation instead, he gestured impatiently. “Come on.”

With another sigh, Solo let himself be led.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, they eventually ended up back at Solo’s car, and then by the Seine, on a riverbank that, on weekends, was usually inhabited by couples and young families with picnic baskets. Today, they had it mostly to themselves, and Solo leaned against the side of the car as he watched Kuryakin prance about and play with his silly boomerang. The Russian had the nerve to look utterly _serious_ as he did it, the only clue as to whether he might find this even remotely amusing the relaxed line of his shoulders; and Solo really should not know quite so much about them. But he couldn’t help it — they were right _there_.

Out of his infernal tux and clad in a simple, lightweight suit, the Russian still cut an imposing figure, and Solo noticed he was not the only one watching: Kuryakin drew the eye of many a passerby, and Napoleon found himself wishing they’d walk along a little faster. It was what he got for using his day off to gallivant around the park with a wanted burglar and art thief, Solo chastised himself for his own foolishness. But there was nothing for it, they needed the Venus out of that museum. Solo would do anything.

Eventually, Kuryakin seemed to have the throwing business down pat, as he executed a dozen flawless turns in a row; then turned back to Solo and looked vaguely triumphant.

“Get in,” he said, gesturing towards the passenger side, and Solo got in before thinking twice about it, only stopping to consider that he was letting that madman drive his car, apparently. Kuryakin slid into the driver’s seat as though he quite belonged there, and Solo decided it wasn’t worth making a fuss.

“Where to now?” he asked, just for the sake of it.

“My hotel room,” Kuryakin answered, infuriatingly plain. “We’ll just have to make one stop on the way.”

“Your hotel—might I remind you, Monsieur Kuryakin, that ours is a business relationship,” Solo couldn’t help himself, the quip escaping before he could bite his tongue.

Kuryakin, quite counter to what he had expected, grinned as he turned the key in the ignition. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Bonnet, I am only too aware of social gulf between us. You are an aristocrat, and I am but a humble burglar.”* With this, he drove them off, and Solo desperately held in further remarks upon the Russian’s decidedly _not_ humble attire, address, and manners.

*

What they’d stopped to get on the way to the Ritz, then, had been — from five different shops — the ingredients for home-made guard uniforms: plain black suits, epaulettes, buttons, and hats adorned with the same.

“Are you serious?” Solo asked incredulously. “And why couldn’t we have just gotten two complete uniforms from a costume shop?”

Kuryakin spared him a pitying glance. “Too dangerous. This will only take few hours.”

Solo felt his eyebrows climb up to his hairline. “You mean to sew all this on yourself?“

“ _Da_.”

“You’re mad. Utterly mad,” Solo pronounced. “And why are we supposed to wear them? Why am I, it’s your burglary.“

“For one thing, it’ll give Cifonelli the night off,“ Kuryakin returned, and it irked Solo more than he cared to admit that Kuryakin had either found out or, worse, deduced just from looking at him where he had his suits made. Granted, Cifonelli’s was a viable guess for any fashionable man’s tailor, but it was far from certain.

But then, it all registered with Solo, and he stared.

“You have a plan?” He couldn’t help the smile that took over his face.

“Try it on,” Kuryakin thrust a coat hanger with suit jacket and trousers at him. “Just in case we need to have the hotel seamstress make alterations.” When Solo made no move towards the bathroom, Kuryakin scowled. “Go!”

Jolted into action, Solo made for the ensuite, his mind racing. Could Kuryakin truly have a plan? Hastily, he changed into the suit, noting the places where it decidedly did not flatter his figure, but overall it would do just fine. He stepped out into the bedroom to inform Kuryakin of this, and found him trying on his own suit. He had his back turned towards Solo, but from the way his head was bent down and the movement of his arms, Solo thought he might just be doing up his fly.

Oh. Uh. Solo nearly turned around again to vanish back into the bathroom, but then Kuryakin spoke.

“And? Does it fit?”

“Y-yes,” Solo replied quickly. “The cut’s not perfect, but then I suppose guards’ uniforms aren’t meant to look expensively tailored.” He was quite proud of himself for stringing this many words together. But then, the Russian turned, casting a critical eye over Solo’s appearance, and any thought of pride in his eloquence took a swan dive out the window. He cleared his throat. “So’s that it? Are we ready?” He watched as Kuryakin shrugged on his suit jacket. It was just a little tight in the shoulders, but not too terribly, Solo found. Not terribly at all.

“Ready?” Kuryakin asked as if the entire point of this wasn’t to knock over a museum in the middle of the night, by Sunday.

“You have a plan,” Solo insisted.

“Hmm,” Kuryakin hummed, fastening the jacket buttons and giving the whole ensemble an experimental tug. “I do. And Saturday night, my plan and I will be tucked up in that bed.“*

Solo felt his face fall.

“But—”

“Tell me why,” Kuryakin demanded then, his expression unforgiving. “Tell me why you are so hell-bent on stealing that statue.”

“I told you why!” Solo burst out. Kuryakin merely raised a brow. “I mean, I told you why I couldn’t tell you why,“ he tried again.

Kuryakin’s eyes shuttered even further, and he began unbuttoning the jacket to take it off.

“No!” Solo sprang forward, reaching out as to put a hand on Kuryakin’s arm, but he’d already turned, and instead Solo’s hand landed squarely on his chest. Kuryakin looked down at it as though offended, but not quite sure what to do about it. Too glad to have stopped him moving, Solo didn’t dare take his hand away.

“I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had any other choice,” he implored the Russian. “I _have_ to do it. Please,” he added, for good measure.

Kuryakin _growled_. “You are trying to soften me up,” he accused, and now he did — surprisingly gently — grasp Solo’s wrist to draw his hand away from his chest. “It won’t work. I cannot help you.”

Dejected, Solo took a step back. “I understand.” There was no arguing it now, was there? If even an experienced thief like Kuryakin couldn’t figure out a way to do it. “I understand,” he repeated, and turned to walk back towards the bathroom. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Behind him, he heard a sigh. “Yes, good. Go.” A long pause, during which Solo had all but reached the door to the ensuite. “And meet me at the museum at 5:30 p.m., sharp. And _don't_ ask _me_ why.“

Solo turned on his heel, relief so strong in his chest he thought he might burst.

“Yes. Yes! Thank you!”

He would have said more, but Kuryakin turned to him with a near murderous expression, so he hurried into the bathroom to get changed. Once inside, he allowed himself a startled laugh. He’d said yes!

*

That night, Solo slept badly, tossing and turning more than he got any rest. Gaby was away for the day, visiting galleries and her own tailor and assorted boutiques. Solo had promised her that he had a plan, but had divulged none of the details, and so his sister sought to distract herself from the stress of it with work — she had apprenticed as a seamstress, after all, so shopping for new clothes, for her, was as much a necessity as it was studying the new material the masters put out. (Quite as a painter would.)

At five pm, Solo was ready to leave the house. He’d take a taxi to the museum, of course — it wouldn’t do to leave his car standing right outside the gates all night, after all. He was about to leave, letting Marcel know not to bother with dinner on his behalf, when the doorbell rang melodiously. Solo stopped, and gestured for Marcel to answer.

“If it’s for me, please tell them I’m out,” he whispered, then went to hide around the corner, in the salon. He thought about making a run for the kitchen and disappearing through the servants’ entrance, but for some reason he wanted to know who it was before he left.

Marcel opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Mme Vinciguerra,” he greeted their visitor, and Solo’s eyes widened. Victoria? He frantically searched his mind — they hadn’t agreed to meet again when they’d parted a few days ago, so why was she here?

She enquired after Napoleon, of course, and when Marcel regretted to inform her that Monsieur Bonnet had already left — yes, his car was in the courtyard, but he’d taken a taxi — she simply marched inside, declaring her intention to wait. Solo leaned around one of the pillars and exchanged an alarmed look with Marcel, who could only shrug. Solo made shooing motions, intending for Marcel to keep Victoria busy while he snuck out. He got moving, but he’d not accounted for the large mirrors on either wall of the hallway.

“There you are!” Victoria called just as he tried to make off. She got up and nearly walked towards his reflection, but then corrected her course and turned on one elegant heel.

“Victoria,” Solo did his best to sound pleasantly surprised.

“Your man told me you’d gone out,” she accused.

“I am! I have, I just… forgot something and came to get it. But now I really have to go,” Solo tried to shake her off.

“My goodness, Napoleon, will you calm down,” Victoria laughed. “I’ve never met such a fidgety man in all my life. But, you’re right. You want action? That’s my mood, too.” She reached into her purse, then, and dug out a small, square box covered in dark blue velvet.

And tossed it at him.

“Catch!”

Reflexively, Solo caught it. Dreading to open it, Solo cast about for an excuse, but could not find any; and distractions were thin on the ground with his sister out of the house. So he opened the box, and found… a ring. A simple gold band, with a small diamond set into the top.

Oh, no.

“Victoria, I—”

“Please, no speeches.”

“But why?” Solo felt close to fainting. “We don’t even know each other.”

“Why? That’s the silliest question I’ve ever heard.”

“Victoria — please come back tomorrow?” Solo tried a different tack. He needed to _leave_.

“Nonsense, I made up my mind. Snap judgement! I bought a whole fleet of tankers that way, best deal I ever made.”

Solo’s vision began to swim. “But I’m not a fleet of tankers, and I’m not getting engaged to a woman I barely know.” _I’d really rather not get engaged to a woman at all_ , he only just kept himself from saying.

“Psh, you’ll get to know me. Look me up in Who’s Who, Dun & Bradstreet…” Victoria stepped in close to him then, taking the ring box out of his hands, then taking the ring, then his left hand. She slid the ring on his finger as though she’d done it a hundred times — and damn her, the ring fit perfectly. “There, that’s it. So it’s a deal?”

“Yes. What! No!” Solo gently withdrew his hand from hers. “Look, I really must go. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Of course, Napoleon darling,” Victoria smiled, and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

Over her shoulder, Solo looked at his watch.


	5. Togetherness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once he’d arrived at the museum, Solo quickly made his way to Kuryakin, who looked like he was barely restraining himself from pacing up and down the courtyard gardens like a caged tiger. Solo made no effort to be stealthy, so on his next brooding glance towards the entrance, the Russian spotted him immediately.
> 
> “You are late,” Kuryakin hissed when he was close enough.
> 
> “I’m sorry,” Napoleon hissed back — and found that he actually was, much that it really wasn’t his fault that Victoria had turned up when she had; and certainly not his wish. “I was getting engaged.” To prove the matter, he held up his left hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaahhhh this is it! The heist! The big-time caper! The reveal of many more surprises!!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this final chapter, and a huge thank-you to everyone who's left kudos and comments and bookmarks!
> 
> ♥︎

Fortunately, Victoria had let Napoleon go after their blink-and-you-miss-it betrothal; and he had quickly absconded through the servants’ entrance, to keep up appearances, and hailed a taxi. Thankfully, cabs were the only species in Paris that proliferated better than pigeons, so he did not have to search long. He paid the driver extra to make good time to the museum, explaining that, yes, he was letting someone wait. The implication being, of course, that said someone was a _girl_ , and that she would be sorely disappointed if he were to be late. He couldn’t very well tell the man that his _fiancée_ was not the one he was letting stand out in front of a museum they were intent on stealing from. Nor that aforementioned fiancée would have probably needed some very strong brandy had she known that what he was stealing was the very piece of art she’d been obsessed with for the better part of a week.

Oh, dear.

Once he’d arrived at the museum, Solo quickly made his way to Kuryakin, who looked like he was barely restraining himself from pacing up and down the courtyard gardens like a caged tiger. Solo made no effort to be stealthy, so on his next brooding glance towards the entrance, the Russian spotted him immediately.

“You are late,” Kuryakin hissed when he was close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon hissed back — and found that he actually was, much that it really wasn’t his fault that Victoria had turned up when she had; and certainly not his wish. “I was getting engaged.” To prove the matter, he held up his left hand.

Kuryakin’s gaze was drawn to the ring right away, and he frowned at it quite spectacularly for so reserved a person. “What?” he asked when he raised his gaze to Solo’s.

“She arrived just as I was leaving. I didn’t want to keep you waiting, so I got engaged to her, is that alright?” Solo asked with perhaps a little more sarcasm than what was warranted.

“Well, we have ten more minutes, so if you would like to go back and marry her…,” Kuryakin said, sounding just a little too piqued to play it nonchalant.

Ignoring that for the moment because thinking about it further would only result in him straining his brain by contemplating things unsaid — things such as, perhaps, ‘congratulations’ — Solo brushed past Kuryakin and tugged at his elbow. “Come on.”

*

Once inside, Kuryakin was asked to check the parcel he carried, naturally — containing the two suit jackets he had made, and a hat for each of them. As it was, Solo now hadn’t had a chance to look at them, but oddly enough he trusted the Russian to get the details right. Perhaps being around forgers every day of his life had skewed his estimation of other people’s sense of observation.

Kuryakin took him on a route much familiar from their morning ‘casing the joint,’ as he’d mockingly called it. He’d undoubtedly picked it up from some American gangster movie, and seemed little impressed with their idioms and euphemisms.

“This is it,” the Russian murmured quietly to him as they passed a row of absolutely ghastly portraits from the eighteenth century. “Point of no return.” He feigned a deep look into his exhibition brochure. “If you really want it... that much.“

“More,” Solo said as vehemently as he could without drawing attention their way. He chanced a glance at Kuryakin out of the corner of his eye, and found him giving him an odd sort of look. As though he knew something Solo didn’t, but Solo couldn’t decide whether it was likely to be a bad thing he was withholding. Probably, considering the man was a burglar and a thief.

“Alright,” Kuryakin replied and drew a pocket watch from his coat. It looked old, well-made, a lot like the one Solo’s father had always carried. “The museum is closing in exactly one minute. When that happens, watch for,” he paused for a moment, likely searching for the right phrase, “normal human reaction.”

“Normal human reaction?” Solo echoed, feeling a little silly. “Is that code for something?”

The look Kuryakin gave him then was decidedly baleful. “If you were stuck guarding a building full of expensive things you could not afford or particularly liked, how would you feel?”

“Irritable.”

“Exactly.”

As if that explained anything.

They waited for exactly a minute, as advertised — well, not quite.

“Ten seconds,” Kuryakin announced, as he’d been keeping an eye on his watch. “Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one.” He looked up expectantly.

Nothing happened.

“I—” Kuryakin frowned at his watch. “This watch is never wrong.”

Solo didn’t get to form a reply as, just as he opened his mouth, the most atrocious bell disturbed the relative quiet of the museum, ripping through the air worse than any school bell Solo had ever encountered — and he had known some vicious ones. To his shame, he jumped a little. Next to him, Kuryakin just looked peeved.

“Fine,” he ground out. “Hold on.”

Around them, visitors were being herded towards the exit. In the wake of their parting, the guards would do one full sweep of the building. They needed a distraction, then, Solo supposed; and cast about for one, letting Kuryakin tug at his sleeve towards an alcove.

“Normal human reaction,” Kuryakin whispered as he stuffed half a handful of loose change into his brochure and perched it on a very expensive mantelpiece. He steered Solo partly away again. A guard picked up the brochure as he passed, and of course all the coins inside clattered to the marble floor with quite the racket, drawing absolutely everyone’s attention — except for two.

Solo did his best not to struggle when Kuryakin suddenly manhandled him down into the alcove, even pushing his head back down when he looked up to ask what on earth he thought he was doing. He tried to make himself as small as he could, then watched as Kuryakin made to fix his tie in the large mirror above, his eyes darting to the side to keep watch on the guards. When he deemed the coast clear, Kuryakin ducked behind the screen covering the erstwhile grate. Solo could scarcely believe that such a bear of a man could fit into such a confined space, but either Kuryakin had a dancer’s body or he simply dared the laws of physics to deny him.

Solo tried very hard not to think about how Kuryakin’s legs were tucked in beside his.

Such hidden away, they waited until the guards were up the stairs. Then, Kuryakin blindly reached for his hand and pulled him along, out of the alcove and down a small flight of stairs, cordoned off. There was a small — tiny, really, and Solo had a feeling he would not enjoy what was coming next — supply closet underneath the grand stairway leading up to the first floor. Kuryakin let go of his hand and ushered them both inside.

It was a tight fit, and Solo had to half climb up a ladder leaning against the far wall for Kuryakin to step into the small space behind him. Kuryakin, who had flicked on a small torch, let the beam of light ascend slowly from Solo’s feet, up his legs and then his thighs. Solo felt that, were he wearing a skirt, he’d be tugging at the hem to cover himself right about now.

“What am I, a statue,” he admonished as quietly as he could, but Kuryakin had no time to answer before he abruptly put a finger to his lips to signal Solo to be quiet, and then snapped off the torch, leaving them in utter darkness. Solo felt him crowding in against his back.

Guards’ footsteps, echoing through the now otherwise empty halls. One pair coming ever closer. They’d nearly passed, but then the door that Kuryakin had left slightly ajar snapped closed. The guard stopped in his tracks.

Of course.

*

“I should have taken that second shot at you. Unhand me,” Solo groused as he did his best to extricate himself from their hiding spot first. Kuryakin had made the executive decision to wrap his arms around Solo’s waist and haul them both into the even tinier space just to the side and slightly behind the ladder, where a few workmen’s coats were hanging down from pegs. Disappearing behind those, they’d held their breaths as the guard who’d discovered that the door had been unexpectedly open had flicked on the tiny overhead light and taken a cursory glance inside — thankfully, cursory enough so as to completely miss them. Solo was certain that their shoes had poked out underneath.

“Stop complaining,” Kuryakin grunted.

“When did you find this, anyway?” Solo couldn’t help but ask. Even in the scarce light provided by Kuryakin’s torch, Solo could see the slightly incredulous look thrown his way.

“You did notice when I… left you alone occasionally during our first inspection?“ Kuryakin queried.

“I did,” Solo returned, a little indignant. Oh. The penny had dropped. “That’s when you found this cupboard, you ducked behind the red band.”

Kuryakin hummed, _almost_ approvingly. “And when else?”

“When we followed that one guard after his shift ended. You went after him through a door and came back out a few minutes later looking altogether too pleased with yourself.”

“Sounds right.”

“What were you doing?” Solo stopped short. “You didn’t follow him into the guards’ restroom, did you?“

Kuryakin raised a brow. “I followed him into _guards’ room_.”

“Did you get a look at the alarm system?“

“No, I asked them how often the place is being cleaned,” the Russian replied as though that really ought to have been obvious.

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

Solo needed a moment to remember the truly pressing conundrum they had found themselves in now. “We’re locked in!”

“Yes,” Kuryakin said very plainly.

“That’s all you have to say?” Solo was only too aware that he could afford neither getting angry with a man so much taller than him nor raising his voice in the situation they were in, but the temptation to fly off the handle just for the sake of the look it would put on Kuryakin’s face was strong.

“Yes.”

In that moment, Solo swore to himself, if they got out of this alive and, more importantly, not in handcuffs, he would get the other pistol and give that man a piece of his mind. Moreover, a piece of ancient lead.

Especially when Kuryakin settled in to sit and patted the tiny wooden bench beside him.

“I suggest you get comfortable.”

Resigning himself to his fate — arguing with a Soviet brick wall seemed fruitless at best and dangerous at worst, considering he was consorting with a wanted criminal, no matter how… well-mannered that criminal appeared to be — Napoleon sat down.

“How long do we have to wait?” he murmured. He’d been so tense and worried all day, now to simply sit and wait… weariness was creeping in.

“Until the guards make their first round,” Kuryakin said, calm as anything. “Could be a while.”

“Alright.” Solo tried to keep his back straight, but eventually he started listing to the side — and into Kuryakin, who did not seem to mind, at least. Solo leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“I’ll wake you,” Kuryakin said quietly, sounding amused but not mocking. _Fond_ , Solo’s mind supplied, but… _surely not_. Still, Solo did doze off, the strong, warm line of Kuryakin’s shoulder and arm against his side, and he almost sighed. His wasn’t a completely lonely existence, but a cautious one, and it had been a long time since he’d met anyone quite like the Russian. Well, to be perfectly frank, he’d _never_ met anyone like him; neither as handsome nor as infuriating.

Time passed quite without Solo noticing.

“Bonnet,” Kuryakin whispered, prodding his shoulder a little. “Guards are making their rounds.” He reached up to snap off the torch.

In the dark, it was a tense few minutes of waiting. At the end of it, even Kuryakin let out a tension-filled breath.

“Every hour. Very good.”

“We’re still locked in, mastermind.”*

Kuryakin toggled the torch back on and Solo blinked a few times to get used to the light. Solo’s eyes boggled wider, however, when he watched Kuryakin procure a very, very large magnet from his jacket pocket.

“You what?”

“Just keep quiet, and watch me work,” the Russian told him. Solo glared at him for the first part, not that Kuryakin noticed, but then quickly moved on to staring in horror at everything else that Kuryakin had — quite literally — up his sleeves. Measuring band, chalk, wire, rubber bands, pincers… not the usual instruments of any experienced locksmith, Solo would have surmised, but a tense ten minutes later, Kuryakin had the door open.

“You’re still mad,” Solo insisted. “What now?“

Kuryakin had the nerve to grin at him while he put a strip of duct tape over the lock bolt so it couldn’t snap shut again. Then, he drew the wooden boomerangs from his sleeve.

“Oh no, not these again,” Solo sighed.

“Just hold on.” And with that, Kuryakin left the cupboard.

Half a minute later, Solo nearly jumped out of his skin when the alarm started blaring.

“What!”

Seconds later, Kuryakin shoved himself inside the cupboard again, switching off the light with one hand and holding the door closed from the inside with the other. Solo had no choice but to hold onto his arm if he didn’t want to go sailing into the ladder and risk making a hell of a lot of noise.

“What did you do?“ he hissed.

“Just watch,” Kuryakin whispered back.

“What for?”

“Normal human reaction.”

They listened as guards’ hurried steps and calling voices echoed around them. But they wouldn’t find anything.

*

They had to wait at least twenty minutes before the next attempt, so they did their best to get comfortable while standing, just to minimise the risk of falling asleep.

Solo looked up at the Russian, who was frowning at nothing in particular, or so it seemed, and all at once the terrible ridicule of the situation hit him. What had he done? It was true, he and Gaby were in awful trouble, and he did not want his sister to go to prison, or to have to flee Paris; nor did he himself particularly enjoy the prospect of being tried as an accessory to fraud and forgery. Or to go to America. But still, there would have been ways, surely — and instead, he'd involved someone else in their fantastical little drama.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured then, in the general direction of Kuryakin’s barrel chest.

“What for?”

“For all this. I had no right to involve you, and… if you want to call it off now, you can.”

For a long moment, Kuryakin didn't say a word. But when he did, his voice was as gentle as Solo had never heard it.

“I appreciate the offer, but… what about Professor Bauer?”

Solo’s eyes snapped up to meet his.

“I daresay he will be very disappointed if he comes here to test your… million dollar baby and finds it gone.”

Solo floundered. “I…”

“It is fake, is it not?” Kuryakin’s gaze was unforgiving. Solo started stammering, but the Russian put a hand on his arm. “No long speeches this time of night. Just nod your head if I'm right.”

Slowly, Solo nodded. Kuryakin seemed satisfied.

“Who carved it?”

“My grandfather.”

“And who posed for it?”

“My grandmother. You're the first to see a resemblance, I—”

“Well, I am very sensitive and perceptive,” Kuryakin said in what could only be mockery, but Solo found himself nodding anyhow. His head was swimming. But now, he also had questions of his own.

“How long have you known?”

“Since you first asked me to steal it,” Kuryakin told him firmly.

_What?_

“But… if you knew the Venus was worthless, why did you help me? Why?” As Solo was still babbling, Kuryakin, with an indecipherable look in his eyes, leaned closer, and closer, until his intention was hardly to be mistaken. “Oh,” Solo breathed.

Kuryakin took it as permission — and kissed him, chastely and softly and far too briefly.

“Does that answer your question?” he asked, mischief in his gaze.

“I'm so stupid,” Solo whispered, but he couldn't stop smiling. “Explain it to me again.”*

So Kuryakin did, and this time he wrapped his arms around Solo and drew him close against him. Solo set his hands on Kuryakin’s waist and held on tight.

*

After Kuryakin set off the alarm a second time, the guards searched the place and, again, couldn’t find anything or indeed anyone. After the police had once more departed and the guards returned to their break room, Kuryakin leaned out of the door, watching the main room. When he came back in and closed the door behind him, he looked almost a little dazed.

“It worked,” he said. “It worked.” He looked at Solo. “They turned it off.“

In that moment, Solo could have kissed him.

So he did, but when he raised his left hand to Kuryakin’s neck, the Russian flinched a little. Oh. Solo’s engagement ring. He supposed it was cold.

“I’d forgotten about that.”

“So did I. May I kiss the groom?”

Solo found his smile and nodded.

“Speaking of,” Kuryakin murmured when they parted again. “Whose groom am I kissing?”

For a moment, Solo had trouble remembering what he meant. “Oh! Uh, Victoria Vinciguerra, American tycoon.”

“She should be a lucky woman.”

Solo smirked. “I’m sure she’ll find a man someday who can make her happy, yes.”

Kuryakin grinned.

*

The rest of the night passed in a blur — they retrieved the statue (or, rather, Illya did, as Solo now finally knew his first name) and then waited for the cleaning crew, scheduled for four o’clock in the morning. Their theft was discovered then, as planned, and with the Venus hidden in a harness underneath Illya’s purposely ill-fitting uniform, they used the ensuing chaos to blend into the horde of headless chickens — beg your pardon, guards. Solo, his heart in his throat, simply followed Illya as he took an elaborate route towards the guards’ room. They didn’t linger, however, but instead Illya led him towards a second door leading out into a winding staircase.

From there, they made their escape, and separated. Illya made off towards his hotel, the Venus safe in his arms, and Napoleon walked a few more blocks before hailing a cab. He trembled with adrenaline the entire way home.

*

The next morning, the first thing Illya did was to call Solo.

“Night fighter calling dawn patrol, night fighter calling dawn patrol,” his voice sounded from the receiver, and Solo started grinning like a loon. “Our phones may be tapped, so we will conduct this entire conversation in Swahili,” Illya continued. He really was a silly man. “How are you?“ he asked gently then, and Solo could only attribute to the fact that Illya was so tall that he’d hidden all that affection so well _somewhere_.

They made an appointment to meet at the Ritz, for lunch, and then Napoleon went downstairs to see Gaby — who had only just sent off a crestfallen and utterly crushed Monsieur Waverly. Solo embraced his sister, who was overjoyed for their good fortune.

“Will you celebrate with me? Marcel, champagne!” she called.

“Oh, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’ve got an important meeting at the Ritz,” Napoleon hastened to apologise.

“The Ritz? Again?”

Later Napoleon thought he really should have known. He should have known Gaby would follow him. And, really, he should have known that there was more to Illya than a thief.

He was a private detective, specialising in stolen works of art. He was also an authority on museum security, a special consultant to principal museums in Leningrad, of course, St Petersburg, but also London, Madrid, even New York and Chicago. He had degrees in history of art and chemistry, and a London University diploma, with distinction, in advanced criminology.

He was all that.

The night Solo had loomed up in his pyjamas and shot him in the arm, he’d been chipping off pieces of paint off that lovely van Gogh to take them back to his room at the Ritz to test them. The entire time, he’d known about their family, and the Bonnet collection. And he’d not said a word.

Of course, Gaby chose that moment to show up. The day was only compounded by Solo later realising that his ring — the ring he’d put back in its box to return to Victoria — was gone.

He really should have known.

He wasn’t there when Illya handed over the Venus to Victoria on the tarmac of a small, private airport outside of Paris, but he could well imagine the satisfaction on her face when she alone held the Venus in her hands — and the ring on a rosé-coloured ribbon around its neck.

Solo was present, however, when Illya convinced Gaby to retire, as he put it. No more forgeries — they had enough money to let her keep the house and lead a comfortable life, and with her skills, she could easily work for any couture designer she so chose.

As Solo and Illya drove out of the courtyard on the way to the airport for their honeymoon, as they stubbornly called it, another car pulled up; and from it descended the man Solo recognised as Uncle Rudi. Oh, dear.

“Who’s that?” Illya asked as they watched the man run up the steps towards Gaby, who now seemed quite amenable.

Oh, dear. The van Gogh.

“Gaby’s uncle. From South America,” Solo told Illya plainly.

Illya gave him a sidelong look. “You know, for someone who started lying only recently, you’re very good at it.“

“Thank you,” Solo grinned, and quickly kissed his cheek. “Now. Where are we going?”

 


End file.
